


You kindled me into fire

by Morwen_Maranwe



Series: I'm a Flame and You're my Fire [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "The Rules", AU, Age Difference, Age Play, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, body image issues, gratuitous use of pet names, older John/younger Sherlock, older/younger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen_Maranwe/pseuds/Morwen_Maranwe
Summary: Because daddies need to be told they're beautiful every once in a while, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The Burning Life has reached 1000 comments! In gratitude for all the support and dedication of TBL's readers, I give you: celebratory smut!!! I really am blown away by all of the love that this AU has gotten over time, and couldn't be more humbled. Thank you all so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos and bookmarking! It is very much appreciated and obsessed over.
> 
> This story takes place in the AU of my multi-chapter story The Burning Life, though you don’t need to read that for this to make sense. The only things you need to know are:
> 
> 1\. This story takes place after The Burning Life has concluded, so (SPOILER ALERT!) John and Sherlock are living together in London at Baker Street.   
> 2\. John is in his late-30’s and Sherlock is in his late teens, attending uni  
> 3\. John and Sherlock have been in an established relationship for some time now

John stands in front of the full length mirror in the corner of the bedroom and looks at his reflection.

He does not like what he sees.

He is shirtless, in nothing but a pair of boxers.  A plain white vest hangs limply in one hand as he looks at the marred battlefield that is his body.  Scars splatter across his skin, his arms and chest carrying the brunt of it.  Most are from his time in the Army.  Shrapnel from IED’s going off and a handful of other near-misses and close-calls; souvenirs from field work he had done.  Some are from his childhood.  A fewer number are from his residency as a new doctor, young and stupid and not wary enough of scalpels and high patients.  And, of course, there is his shoulder.  The skin is healed over now, puckered and gnarled but still a pink, new-flesh colour.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if all John could see is the smaller wound on his back where the bullet entered his body, but no.  What faces him every day is the bigger exit wound on the front of his shoulder where the small piece of metal exploded out of his body; tore through muscle and tissue and bone, the flesh left twisted and ugly in its wake. 

It also doesn’t help matters that he has gotten a bit softer around the middle after his discharge from the Army.  He has lost some muscle definition, too, and he no longer looks like the young, fit 25 year old that felt like he could take on the world.  He has a slight pudge and greying hair and wrinkles around his eyes. 

In the reflection of the mirror, he can see Sherlock sleeping in their bed.  The sheets are pushed down and wrapped around his calves, showing off a slender, tight body with a narrow waist and legs that go on forever.  Not for the first time, John marvels that something so beautiful ever found its way into his life.

_It can’t be real_ , he thinks to himself with a wry smile.

Just then, Sherlock takes the opportunity to stir, blinking blearily awake.  It takes him all of one second to notice that John is not in bed next to him.  Even in the mirror John can see those quicksilver eyes sharpen and narrow as Sherlock wakens in an instant and searches him out, finding him across the room.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks him curiously, voice heavy with sleep.

“Nothing,” John responds quickly.  He turns away from the mirror as he pulls his vest over his head swiftly.  John tugs the thin t-shirt down to cover his torso but he knows it is too late—Sherlock has seen him, and he is sure Sherlock already knows the answer to his own question.  Sherlock knows everything, after all.

Sherlock stares at John from beneath mussed hair for a moment—assessing him, deducing him—as the man stands across the room with his back to the mirror, not looking at the bedraggled brunet.  Then his plush lips purse in displeasure as he takes in John’s flush, John’s downturned eyes, John’s sagging shoulders.

Sherlock holds out his arms to the older man suddenly. 

“Come here,” Sherlock says in a voice still rough and gravelly with sleep, not unkindly.

John goes willingly.  

There is no hesitation in John’s movements as he walks over to their bed and climbs back into it, crawling into the warm, sleep-softened circle of Sherlock’s arms.  Sherlock holds him tightly, squeezing John around his slightly rounded middle, long fingers tracing every scar that they can touch through the thin white vest that John is wearing now.  His fingertips leave burning trails of fire on John’s skin that send shivers of warmth through his old, battered body.

“You shouldn’t look at yourself that way, you know,” Sherlock whispers to him as he tucks John into the curve of his body, spooning the older man.  It is still slightly strange to John, to be held this way, to be coddled—especially by someone so much younger than him—but it is nice.  Comforting.  So he lets himself relax against Sherlock’s body, let’s himself be held.  “You’re beautiful and I love you, Daddy.  You’re the most handsome daddy anyone has ever had.”

John’s mind boggles at the words he hears murmured softly into his ear.  He tries to twist his head around to look at the youth behind him, but Sherlock’s face is pressed into the back of John’s neck, his breath warm and soft against the sensitive skin there.  Sherlock rarely sinks into his headspace so quickly and with no provocation from John whatsoever.  Hardly ever.  It is astonishing and beautiful and John wants to see his little boy so badly right now.  So he twists and turns himself until he is facing the opposite direction but is still within the warm circle of Sherlock’s arms, chest to chest with him now.  They stare at each other for a silent moment before John smiles bashfully and kisses his little lover chastely on the lips.

“Thank you, baby,” he says and he means it.  His heart swells with love and pride, knowing that Sherlock thinks he is perfect just the way he is, that Sherlock wouldn’t change him for a thing.  It makes him feel less disgusted with himself.

Sherlock blushes at the tender look John is giving him.  “Now you have to say something nice about yourself,” he tells the man.  “It’s in the rules, remember, Daddy?”

John knows which rule Sherlock is referring to.  It was one that John had put there specifically for moments like this that Sherlock has about himself, because he hates that Sherlock never sees himself the way that John sees him—beautiful, brilliant, amazing.  _‘Every day I must tell Daddy one good thing I like about myself’_ , it said.  But… 

“Those rules are for you, baby,” John reminds him.  “Daddies don’t have to follow rules.”

“How is that fair?” Sherlock asks, looking confused and petulant.  His sleep-mussed curls and the soft tone of his voice add to his child-like illusion and John is once again amazed at how well Sherlock plays his part in this game of theirs.  “No, that’s not fair at all,” Sherlock answers his own question.  “If Sherlock’s need to follow rules, then so do Daddies.  That’s how it should be.”  He looks quite sure of himself.

John has to hold back a chuckle at that.  “Oh, I wasn’t aware you were the boss around here,” John tells him, trying to hide a smile.  Their heads are on the pillows and they are centimetres from each other, so close they are whispering, and John knows it’s impossible to try to hide anything from the young genius at this distance, but it’s still fun to try.

Sherlock simply rolls his eyes at the man immaturely.  “That’s because I like to let you pretend that _you_ are.  I know how happy it makes you.”

John barks out a laugh at that, no longer able to contain it.  They can joke around about it because they know that nobody is really “in charge”.  That’s what safe words, rules, but most importantly, respect and trust, are all about.  “Prat,” he chides tenderly, his hand coming up to card through Sherlock’s tousled hair, getting caught in a tangle.  He wonders if Sherlock will let him comb through it today.  He seems to be deep enough in his headspace right now that he might allow it if John were to ask nicely enough.

But now Sherlock is glaring at him, an angry look in his glass green eyes.  “Daddy, that’s not nice.  You’re not supposed to use bad words,” Sherlock chastises him, giving John his best “Daddy” impression.  It’s somewhat softened, though, by the pillow-creases on the side of his boyish face.

“Sorry, baby,” John apologises, tone and face all seriousness.

“See, you just proved that you need rules, too,” Sherlock says gravely, as if John has just sealed his own fate.

John is not so easily convinced.  “How did I prove that I need rules?”

“You don’t know how to behave properly,” Sherlock explains patiently.  “The rules help teach you.”

_The cheeky little monkey_ , John thinks, trying simultaneously not to laugh and also not let his awe for Sherlock’s deviousness show through.  “So that’s it, is it?” John asks, staring at the little devil from across his pillow.  “You’re giving me rules now and I’m to follow them?  I’ve behaved so badly that you can’t trust me on my own anymore?”  He is trying not to smile, he really is—he knows that Sherlock is being very serious about this whole thing—but he just can’t help it.  It all seems so silly.

Sherlock’s face, though, is the height of solemnity.  “You can have a safeword, Daddy, if it makes you feel better.”

John manages to hold back his chuckle on that one, because he doesn’t want Sherlock to think that safewords are anything to be laughed at, but the idea of him having one is rather unnecessary.  “That’s okay, baby.  I doubt I’ll need it.”

John doesn’t think there is anything Sherlock could suggest while he is John’s little boy that John would not be okay doing.  And even if he did, John is still Daddy, after all, and what Daddy says goes.

“That’s okay if you don’t want one, I don’t mind sharing mine,” Sherlock says lightly as he moves to get up out of the bed.

“Where are you going?” John asks, disappointment tinging his voice.  He had hoped that he’d be able to have a bit of a lie-in with his sleepy little mouse, cuddling in bed, and maybe some slow, drowsy groping that might turn into something more.  Sherlock hardly ever sinks into his headspace right after waking, and John loves early-morning blow jobs.  This means it is a very rare occasion indeed when he gets to be sucked off by his little boy first thing in the morning.  “Sherlock, come back and cuddle with Daddy!”

But the boy is already gone.  He has made his way out the bedroom door and John can hear him shuffling about in the sitting room, opening drawers and moving what sounds like the coffee table across the floor, no doubt scraping Mrs. Hudson’s hardwood.  John sighs in frustration and crawls out of the body-warm bed, following after his little lover.

When John walks into their sitting room, he can see that Sherlock has indeed moved their coffee table out of the way to make room for himself to sit on the floor, bent over a blank piece of paper that he nicked from John’s desk drawer (Sherlock doesn’t keep any paper in his own drawer in the desk because he just takes John’s all the time).  John watches in silent curiosity, leaning against the doorjamb to the kitchen, as Sherlock produces one of his crayons.  On the top of the page he writes “Daddy’s rules, as stated by Sherlock” in big green letters.

“Rule number one: no self-loathing or self-pity,” Sherlock says, looking up at John with a disapproving eye, as if he is disappointed that this even needs to be stated.

From his vantage point by the kitchen, John snorts.  “Sherlock, you can’t just copy your own rules; that’s cheating.”

“Shh, Daddy.  I’m making the rules now, not you,” Sherlock tells him sternly, a frown on his face that John wants to kiss right off of him.  “Rule two: Daddy must cuddle me after every punishment.”

Now John can barely keep in the chuckle that tries to burst through his lips.  “Are you sure these rules are meant for me?” he asks rhetorically, already knowing the answer.

“Rule three!” Sherlock chirps, interrupting John and ignoring his question.  “Daddy must tuck me into bed if he is going to force me to go to sleep.”

“I see where this is headed,” John says with a tender smile.  If these are going to be his rules, he thinks that following them may not be so bad.  He pushes himself off of the doorjamb and starts to make his way into the sitting room towards the lanky child who is sitting on the floor, curled in on himself and scribbling on a piece of paper with a crayon.

“Rule four,” Sherlock says as he continues to write, the wax of the crayon staining the tips of his fingers where his nails dig into it.  He is trying to ignore John as the man is coming closer but John knows that Sherlock takes notice.  His voice is small and shaky when he speaks, and he doesn’t look up from the paper as he writes the next rule down.  “Daddy must always remember to kiss his little boy goodnight.”

John stops in front of Sherlock and smiles down at his little honeybee, curly head bent low over the paper.  He looks so small, curled in on himself like this, even though he is so much taller than John now, his latest growth spurt shooting him up another few centimetres.  John kneels down on the floor next to Sherlock, so close they can feel each other’s body heat, so close they are pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.  “I really don’t think I’ll have any trouble with these rules, baby,” John tells him, his voice low as he lifts a hand to run his fingers along Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone, grazing the edge of it.  “Not like you do with yours, you brat.”

Sherlock turns to him and smirks, the curve of his lips sharp and dangerous when it is this close to John’s own mouth.  John wants to take the brunet’s bottom lip in between his teeth and bite it.  “How ‘bout this one, then,” Sherlock says imperiously, turning back to the paper and writing.  “Daddy must tell me he loves me 5,000,000 times every day!”

John laughs at that and takes the crayon from Sherlock’s hand, crossing the rule out.  “First of all, I don’t think that would even be possible,” he tells the incorrigible youth, smiling at him.  “Second of all, and more importantly, I don't want a rule to remind me to tell you that I love you.  I want to do that on my own,” he says to Sherlock, putting the crayon down and running his fingers through the dark, curly hair, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“Well, if you don’t like the rules I’m making, why don’t you make some of your own?” Sherlock asks him, picking the crayon back up and holding it out for John to take again.

John stares at the wax colour for a moment, at a loss.  He hadn’t really let Sherlock make any of his own rules the last time they did this, when they were doing it for Sherlock’s benefit and not his own, but he had been sure that Sherlock had agreed to every single rule that was made.  He reaches out slowly to take the crayon and thinks about what he should write on the paper in front of him.  He puts the tip of the colour down to the sheet and his hand starts to move, almost of its own volition.  When he is finished writing he pulls back so that Sherlock can read what he wrote.

_‘I must always remember what a precious gift my little boy has given me,’_ stares back at them in bright green colour.

He lowers his hand to the paper again and writes in his nearly illegible doctor’s scrawl: _‘I must always do my best to make sure my little boy is happy, healthy, and well taken care of because he is trusting me to look after him.’_

The next one is harder.  He draws a blank for a long moment and he honestly thinks that there isn’t anything else to put down on the list of rules for him to follow.  Then he remembers something.  The memory comes shooting across his brain like a bolt of lightning, vivid in its intensity and pain.  He puts his hand back down to the paper and is proud that it shakes only slightly.

_‘I must remember that I am “Daddy” while we are playing and can expect certain things from my little boy, but once we are done I cannot treat Sherlock like a child and expect to get my way just because I can make him listen to me when we play,’_ he writes out.

He can hear Sherlock take a shaky breath beside him as the teen leans forward to read what John has written.

That lesson had been a tough one to learn.  It had caused an epic row between them that had John seriously believing was the end of their relationship.  And all over a stupid game that they played while they had sex.  

But it wasn't just a game, John had come to learn from that fight.  That had proved it.

John stares at the paper before him, remembering that day and how he had almost lost Sherlock over his own stupid stubbornness.  The gut-wrenching, heart-breaking pain of it.  He feels warm fingers wrap around his own suddenly, taking the crayon from his grasp.  They squeeze reassuringly and he looks up to see Sherlock smiling tenderly at him, lovingly.  Sherlock leans in for a kiss which John gladly gives him, and when Sherlock pulls away he bends down to write on the paper again.

“Last one, Daddy,” he tells John.  Sherlock drags the paper towards him and covers it with his arm so that John can’t see what he’s writing, upside-down reading abilities or not.  When Sherlock is finished, he picks the page up and waves it around with a flourish, holding it up with both hands for John to read, a large grin on his face.

John looks down the list to the last rule and his breath catches in his throat.

_‘Daddy must always remember that his baby boy loves him just the way he is and wouldn’t trade his daddy for anything in the world,’_ the rule says.

It is exactly what he needs to hear, every once in a while.  John is not a man who suffers from self-confidence issues regularly, or low self-esteem.  But every now and then (less now that he has Sherlock in his life) there are times when he thinks about everything that has gone wrong in his life.  He thinks about every bad decision that he has made, every year of the past decade spent in a loveless marriage to a woman he thought he knew, every drop of blood that is on his hands as a doctor and as a former RAMC Captain.  His life has not been an easy one and even though Sherlock has made things so much better, sometimes John can’t help but look at the wonderful, mad genius and see how beautiful he is compared to John’s own middle-aged, battered body and feel that he is lacking.  That he is lacking so much to make Sherlock happy, something essential that he will never be able to find.  And he worries that he won’t be good enough for Sherlock.

So seeing it written down—in a set of rules that are meant to bring order and stability to their lives, that are meant to help show them what to do—helps tremendously, in a way that John didn’t think that it would.  He wonders if this is how Sherlock feels, what Sherlock feels like, when they play.  This overwhelming sense of comfort and unyielding love and support.  Is this why Sherlock loves being his little boy so much—because of this sense of completion, of being taken care of?  Suddenly John realises with startling clarity that, while one of the main aspects of this game has always been the chance for John to take care of Sherlock and to give the boy what he needs, John is now coming to find that Sherlock is taking care of him just as surely as John takes care of Sherlock.  He understands now that, as Sherlock’s Daddy, it is John’s job to take care of him, but it is also John’s job to help Sherlock take care of _him_.  It is John’s job to teach Sherlock how to love and care for him by loving and caring for Sherlock himself.  And if Sherlock’s desire to want to do this for John is any indication, the man thinks he may just have done something right.

He looks up at Sherlock and smiles, the edges of it tight with a burning emotion that is threating to spill down his cheeks.  John reaches a hand out for Sherlock and he is there instantly, lips pressed to John’s, kissing, breathing the man in, supporting John and holding him up as he trembles slightly in Sherlock’s thin arms.

“You’re so good to me, John,” Sherlock is whispering against John’s mouth, the words warm and wet and soft.  “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.  Thank you for taking care of me.”

John can only shake his head in disagreement, throat still too tight, eyes still burning with unshed tears, because that’s wrong.  He doesn’t take care of Sherlock.

They take care of each other.

They always have.

*

_A few months prior…_

The day that John plans to spend a nice evening playing with his little boy, but comes home to a disaster of a flat instead, is the day that he decides that Sherlock needs “The Rules”.

It is not an easy decision to make; they have only just moved to London and into Baker Street together so they have not had much time to let their relationship grow properly, and John never wanted to be one of those daddies who made their “little” have a list of things that they could or could not do.  However, Sherlock is proving to be quite the impetuous young man.  Which John loves, for the most part.

Sometimes, though….

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” John asks as he opens the door to 221b, stopping dead in his tracks.  He had sent Sherlock a text earlier saying that he had traded shifts with another doctor at the surgery, and had managed to get the next two days off, so he wanted the boy ready for Daddy when John came home.

Instead, this is waiting for John.

The kitchen is the first thing that catches the man’s eye.  It looks as though some mad scientist has tried to squat in it, which, John supposes, it a very apt description.  There are test tubes scattered all over the table and some have already spilled dangerously-coloured liquids onto the scratched wooden surface.  Erlenmeyer flasks of varying sizes are sitting about, one of which is right next to Sherlock’s microscope and has a bag of tea brewing in it, the liquid looking darkly forlorn and sadly forgotten.  John’s pretty sure that’s not safe etiquette for proper use of laboratory equipment.  A look at the sitting room shows that it doesn’t seem to be fairing any better.  It seems as though Sherlock had indeed sunk into his headspace before John had come home; his toys are scattered all around the lounge area, play soldiers and soft toys thrown haphazardly about, dropped in what seems to be a rather careless manner as Sherlock’s attention was pulled from one thing to the next.

John wonders how long Sherlock has been in his headspace.  He had sent Sherlock the text about his schedule in the morning.  Surely not since then…

Behind him, back in the kitchen, the microwave suddenly goes off with a loud _ding!_  John turns sharply at the sound, caught off guard by it.  Sherlock is nowhere to be found and he hadn’t expected anything to be cooking.  He walks across the kitchen, giving the table a wide berth, and pops the microwave door open—

And then quickly shuts it.

“Christ,” he curses under his breath, shaking his head and bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  This is out of hand.  _Surely_ the insufferable child hasn’t been in the flat all bloody day long, sunk deep in his headspace, doing nothing but playing with every toy he owns while running bloody experiments like he is an adult, and drinking over-brewed tea _out of bloody science equipment_!

John walks out of the kitchen because if he doesn’t, he thinks that he might just have a stroke.  He looks around the disaster of their sitting room and decides that it doesn’t help.

From down the hallway John hears Sherlock come out of their bedroom, his steps light and carefree as he makes his way into the kitchen.  John looks up at him and sees that Sherlock is still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, though the pyjamas he has decided to lounge around in today are pirate-themed and decidedly “little”-friendly.

“ _Finally_ you’re home, Daddy,” Sherlock whines, and John doesn’t know how Sherlock manages to make his deep voice sound so young and bright and _annoyed_ all at once.  “It’s been so _boring_ waiting for you.  You won’t believe what I had to do to pass the time.”

John can believe it very well.  He’s standing in the middle of the evidence.  Actually, he thinks he may have stepped _in_ some of the evidence on his way around the table to the microwave earlier.  He grimaces.

“That’s it, I’ve had enough!” he snaps out, his tone biting, and he can see Sherlock stiffen imperceptibly at the sudden, harsh sound.  “Come over here, right this instant, young man,” John orders him, pointing to a clear space of floor right in front of the doctor in the graveyard of toys that is now their sitting room.  “We’re going to have a long over-due talk.”

Sherlock shuffles forward out of the kitchen slowly, like a skittish animal, eyes wide and wary.  He knows that John is upset and that he has done something wrong, but John also knows that Sherlock really can’t tell what that something is, for the life of him.  The mad genius just doesn’t think that way.  He doesn’t worry about messes and body parts in the microwave and safe chemical handling, no matter what headspace he is in.

The state of the flat today really shouldn’t be a surprise to John.

Still, if John doesn’t put his foot down, they are going to end up with a rather large sum of money due to Mrs. Hudson at the end of every month for property damages.  Or worse—Sherlock might not be as lucky as he has been lately while in his “little” headspace…

John doesn’t want to think about the consequences of that.

He looks at the man-child standing in front of him, glass green eyes fixed squarely on long, pale, bony bare feet.  John thinks his glare would be much more intimidating if he were still able to look down at Sherlock, but the teen has had several growth spurts now and they have all left him taller than John by leaps and bounds.  He tries not to let it affect his scolding, though.

“You’ve been like this all day, waiting for me to come home?” John asks him, already knowing the answer but needing to be sure.

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him, and although he isn’t looking at John his voice still holds a hint of stubborn defiance, as if he is aware of what is coming and he is prepared to fight against it.

John looks around the battlefield of their flat.  Then he sighs heavily, bringing a hand up to rub at his face tiredly before dragging it through his hair, making a mess of the short, greying strands.  “I hate that I have to do this, but you’ve really left me no other choice.”

“John, what are you—?” Sherlock begins, head snapping up at that, eyes sharp, but John cuts him off before he can get any farther.

“You need rules, Sherlock,” John says with a shake of his head.  “I’ve let you have free reign when you’re in your headspace up until now, but we can’t do this anymore.  Either you’re going to end up hurting yourself or you’re going to end up burning the flat down, one of the two.”

“That’s not true!” Sherlock argues, voice loud as he looks at John with panic and no small amount of anger clearly writ on his face now.  “My mental capacity is not diminished when we—”

“I know, love, and that’s not what this is about,” John cuts him off again, his tone gentle and soothing in an instant.  He doesn’t want Sherlock to think that is what he believes.  John never wants Sherlock to feel that he thinks Sherlock becomes subordinate or inferior when the younger man enters his headspace.  John never wants him to feel that Sherlock is less than what he is, no matter who he chooses to be.  “That’s not what this is about _at all_.  This is just about me making sure that I can keep you safe when you’re in your headspace and I’m not around,” John explains.  “I had no idea that you would go into “little” mode when I sent that text this morning, and the thought of you being here alone all day long scares me.  I know you’re not a child, Sherlock, and I know that you can take care of yourself, but I always want you to feel safe when you’re “little”, whenever you want to go into your headspace.”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and sticks his bottom lip out in a pout, the very picture of churlish childishness.  “And what happens if I don’t follow these _rules_?”  Sherlock says the word like it tastes foul in his mouth.  John can tell that he doesn’t like this idea yet, but John thinks he can get Sherlock to warm up to it.

“Punishments, of course,” John replies, as if it is obvious.  “Whatever I see fit.  But it’s not just about you getting punished if you don’t follow the rules.  You’ll get rewarded if you do well, too.”

The youth perks up at that.  “How?” he asks, but his tone and the look on his face are both wary again, as if he doesn’t trust John.

“Well, if I get to choose the punishments, it only seems fair that you get to choose the rewards, doesn’t it?” John responds, trying hard to keep his tone light, but his cock twitches in his trousers at just the thought of what they are talking about.  “We’ll probably have to have a list of things to choose from, just to make the decisions a bit easier, though.”  If left open-ended, he is sure there is no end to the possibilities of things they could do with each other, good or bad.  His cock swells a little further at all of the scenarios.

For a second Sherlock simply looks at him, as if contemplating the factors, weighing his options.  John can practically see the gears turning in that great big mind of his.  And then he seems to make up his mind rather abruptly because he suddenly nods his head in a jerky, decisive manner and says, in a crisp, clear voice, “All right, then.”

John frowns at him, not believing it for a moment.

“Do you really want this, love?” he asks, prodding the impetuous adolescent gently.  He knows that Sherlock has a tendency to leap before he looks, and he never wants Sherlock to do anything that he will regret when it comes to John and the games they play.  “You know I won’t make you do something you aren’t comfortable with.”

“Of course, John.  I’m just…” Sherlock trails off, trying to find the right words, “wary of the idea.  I don’t really know how I feel about being ordered about, living my life in the confines of a set of rules set forth by someone else—”

“It’s not like that, love!” John says, shocked and hurt that Sherlock thinks that, and that Sherlock would agree to something like that just because John suggested it.  “I’m not going to be bossing you around—I just want to take care of you.  And I would never put down a rule that we didn’t both agree on, one hundred percent,” John stresses.  He stares hard at the teen for a long moment, wanting him to know, _needing_ him to know that what he is saying right now is the absolute truth.  They won’t ever do anything if both of them aren’t entirely comfortable with it.  The two haven’t been living together long, and they are still getting to know one another in this next level of their relationship, but John _has_ never and _will_ never cross that line with Sherlock.  He wants these rules in place to make sure that Sherlock is safe and healthy while they play, not smothered and stifled.  “You have to be completely okay with this, otherwise we won’t do it.”

“Like I said, it’s a little daunting, but…” Sherlock pauses and the most tantalising flush appears on his cheeks, spreading down to his neck.  John follows it with his eyes and licks his lips.  Inside his trousers, he can feel his cock make a rather uncomfortable, yet not wholly unwelcome, twitch towards complete and utter hardness and he tries to control his arousal.  Now is not really an appropriate time, he tells himself, while they are talking about such a serious matter.  “I find it…intriguing,” Sherlock continues, the utterly distracting blush deepening.  “I know that you would never hurt me, and to give myself over to you that way, to give myself up so fully like that….The thought is…immensely arousing.”

Yes, John can agree with that sentiment entirely, although that was not the main intent of suggesting the rules.  He squirms slightly where he stands as he tries to find a comfortable position with his swelling erection.  “So, you _do_ want this?” he asks again, to be sure.

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock says, looking him dead in the eye, and John lets out a shuddery breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Okay,” he replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say.  He suddenly becomes very aware that they are standing in the middle of the sitting room just staring at each other.  John is still in his work clothes, his blue and white striped button down with his dark brown velour jacket over it.  His khaki trousers are all rumpled from his busy day at the clinic and his brown tie is more than a little wind-blown.  Sherlock stands across from him in a pair of extra-long adult sized pirate pyjamas that make him look too endearing for words.  “Yeah, all right.”  He licks his lips, feeling rather ridiculous.

Sherlock stares at him as well, not knowing how to proceed either.  This is new territory for both of them, something that they don’t quite know or understand, and the longer they stand there, the more ridiculous John starts to feel.

“Well, I guess we…write them out,” John suggests, but it comes out sounding more like a question.  Sherlock just continues to stare at him with wide, blank eyes.  “We’ll put them up, somewhere you can see them, so that you can always remember them.”  John likes that idea, like a piece of child’s artwork, something of Sherlock’s that he can proudly showcase.  The fact that it just so happens to be a list of things that John says Sherlock can and cannot do while he is John’s little boy only adds a sense of lewdness to an otherwise sweet and innocent act.

“Help Daddy clean up the sitting room, then go get a piece of paper and one of your crayons, baby boy,” he tells Sherlock.  He keeps his voice soft and gentle but he makes it clear just exactly how John wants this done; he expected to have a nice evening with his little boy when he came home from work, and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to get it.

Sherlock scrambles to obey him, glad that this seems to be the only punishment he is getting for making such a mess out of the flat.  John doesn’t tell him what exactly he has in store for Sherlock as far as the kitchen is concerned—they’ll worry about that later.

When they’ve put all of Sherlock’s toys back where they belong, John sends Sherlock off to grab his paper and crayons, staying behind to move their coffee table out of the way so that a space is cleared in the centre of the room.  As Sherlock comes back and stands in front of John, the man looks down at the floor in front of his feet with his arms crossed.

“On the floor, baby.  On your knees.”  The position itself is enough to get John’s blood flowing south, but add to it the fact that Sherlock is undoubtedly willing to stay in his headspace along with the implications of what they are doing…John gives up trying to keep his erection at bay.  He doesn’t have a chance, anyway.

“You’re going to write these out word-for-word, Sherlock.  Do you understand me?”  He wants Sherlock to know these rules like the back of his hand, to remember them, to have no excuse not to follow them.  As John thinks about the things that he wants from Sherlock, he is very careful to make the distinction in his mind between the difference in rules during playtime and the few rules that he wants to carry over into their daily lives.  He knows he will have no say over rules about Sherlock’s experiments in their normal lives but when they play, he is Daddy, and his first priority is always to make sure his little boy is safe.

“Yes, Daddy,” Sherlock answers him, letting John know both that he is ready to begin and that he is back in his headspace.  He pulls the blank paper towards him and prepares to write down John’s words.

John looks down at Sherlock as the youth hunches over the piece of paper, his body bent in half while he sits on his knees like he was told to do.  John reaches out and strokes a hand down the protruding nodules of Sherlock’s spinal column—the teen stays frustratingly thin, no matter how much John tries to feed him up—and Sherlock squirms distractingly.

John pulls his hand back and hums.  The first rule, he thinks, is obvious:

“‘I must not do experiments when Daddy and I play unless Daddy approves them’.”

“John!” comes the immediate whine, just as John knew it would, Sherlock slipping instantly out of his headspace.

John, though, had been prepared for the childish outburst.  He is not even fazed by the look of utter devastation that Sherlock turns on him from his position on the floor.  “It’s for your own protection, Sherlock, and remember: this is just when we play.  Now, are you going to behave for Daddy?”  The question is hardened somewhat by his steely tone, but John knows that Sherlock will still recognise it for what it is—a stopping point, if he wants it.  John is asking him if he is still willing to continue and, if he is, John is letting him know that he needs to get back into his headspace.

The reminder that this rule is only while they play seems to placate the growing anxiety in Sherlock somewhat.  He doesn’t complain anymore and he writes down the rule with minimal grumbling and a soft, “Yes, sir,” said to his Daddy.

“Very good,” John praises him, running a hand through his curly hair.  Sherlock leans into it like a cat.  “Let’s see, next one,” John ponders aloud, thinking.  Then something else clicks.  “Oh, yes!  ‘I must not use knives, scalpels, lighters, Bunsen burners or anything else that is dangerous when we play unless Daddy supervises me’.”

Sherlock looks up at him in dismay, the illusion of John’s little boy that the brunet wears so well completely slipping off now in his anxiety.  “I won’t be able to do anything at all when I’m ‘little’, except play with building blocks and soft toys!” Sherlock shouts out, clearly angry now, and John can’t help his cock twitching at the picture that forms in his mind at Sherlock’s words.  John wouldn’t mind in the least if that’s all Sherlock did while they played.  He knows how fun soft toys can be, after all, with a little imagination.

He blushes at the thought.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him.  “Yes, you _would_ like that, wouldn’t you, you dirty old man?” he grouses.

John tries to hold on to what little dignity he has left under Sherlock’s shrewd stare.  He clears his throat and wills his blush down.  “It’s only while we play,” he reminds the teen.

Sherlock huffs and writes the rule down.

John sighs and wonders if his little lover is beginning to regret his decision to agree to do this, so he thinks a small reminder to Sherlock that they can always stop this at any time is in order.  “‘My safeword is arsenic’, ” John says for the next line.  It isn’t really phrased as a rule but it should be down on the list nonetheless.  It is important enough to be acknowledged every day, at every chance.  He doesn’t ever want Sherlock to forget that.

Sherlock is unusually quiet and complacent as he writes down John’s words.

“‘I must always remember that I can use my safeword or my colour words to stop playing, no matter what’,” John says immediately, once he sees that Sherlock has finished the previous line.  He doesn’t care if this seems redundant to Sherlock—he’ll phrase it as many times as he needs to so that Sherlock knows and understands and feels comfortable with it.

Sherlock takes a shaky breath and quietly writes down what John said without complaint.

The next two rules are easier for John to come up with.  They are things that he tries to get Sherlock to do on a regular basis anyways, especially when they play, but that the stubborn kid always fights him tooth and nail on.  Stroking Sherlock’s back earlier only served to remind him.  Adding them to the list of rules for Sherlock to follow is only natural to John. 

_‘Eating all of my food at meals’_ and _‘Going to sleep when Daddy puts me to bed’_ are things that John thinks are easy enough to follow, but when John suggests them Sherlock throws such an epic fit that John is momentarily surprised and then swiftly thinks that the teenager is close to calling the whole thing off.  John doesn’t understand it and tells Sherlock as much.

“If I’m going to do this for you, you can’t just _force_ me to do things that will be impossible for me,” Sherlock stresses, his cheeks flushed again but this time with a new level of distress that John doesn’t find the least bit arousing.  In fact, he is somewhat worried for Sherlock at the moment, so he tries to calm the brunet by stroking his neck soothingly.  “Otherwise I’ll always end up getting punished and I won’t enjoy playing this way.  The first two rules I don’t like overly much, although I think I can deal with them.  But I can’t will myself to eat when I physically won’t be able to, or to go to sleep when I’m just not tired.  It’s impossible.  If I’m going to do this for you, then you need to understand that,” Sherlock explains.

Oh.  Well.  John had never thought of it like that.

“Yeah,” he says, licking his lips and nodding his head dumbly, feeling like a tit.  “Yeah, okay.  So, then…”  He trails off, thinking that he has lost the battle on those two.  Yet he doesn’t want to give up on this one chance to be able to take care of Sherlock, either—not when he knows this is something that he wants deeply and that he can finally do.  “How about this, then: ‘I must eat all the food that Daddy puts on my plate at every meal _when we play_ ’?” John amends.  “And: ‘I must go to bed when Daddy tells me to _when we play_ and at least rest if I can't sleep’?”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed and astonished, as if he hadn’t expected John to come up with a compromise that would be agreeable to both of them.  “Yes,” he says on a breathy whisper.  “Yes, I think that will work.”  His head bends quickly to write the two rules down but stops, and John sees a blush creeping up his cheeks before dark curls block his view of Sherlock’s face.

He smiles proudly at himself.  John knows that Sherlock craves rules and structure.  He knows that Sherlock actually likes understanding what he can and can’t do because he wants to clearly know where he stands—whether he can please John and get rewarded, or he can act out and get a spanking, either of which will end the same way.  It just depends on how Sherlock wants to get there at the moment.  Sherlock still just struggles with this part of himself sometimes, with letting John take control.  It is hard for Sherlock to give up so much of himself, even though John knows that he wants to.  Hopefully these rules will help with that a little bit more, though.

“Is it okay, baby?” John asks him again, just to be sure, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and down the soft line of his neck.  The skin of Sherlock’s collarbone inside his pyjama top is warm and smooth, and John wants to feel it under his mouth.  “Are you still going to mind Daddy?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock says, his eyes wide and wavering as they look back up at John, his breath shuddering.

“Then write down your rules, sweetheart,” John tells him gently.

As Sherlock bends his head again to write down what they have just discussed, John thinks about the next rule he wants Sherlock to put on the list.

“‘I must be respectful to Daddy at all times when we play’,” John says matter-of-factly.

Sherlock makes a derisive noise, as if that rule were so expected that it is boring.

“We can start on that one right now, young man,” John says with a hint of reprimand in his tone.  Sherlock narrows his eyes at John but holds his tongue and bends his head to write the rule on the paper.

John thinks on the next one for only a moment before declaring, “‘I must let Daddy know before I go out somewhere’.”

“Daddy—” Sherlock starts but John is already one step ahead of him.

“I just want to know that you’re safe, kitten,” he says, bending down and pressing a soft kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose, where Sherlock thinks that he hates it but John knows that he secretly loves it.  He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to bring up that time, still so fresh, only mere weeks ago, when Sherlock slipped away from him for days, without so much as a word.  John had been so scared, fearing the worst, but not wanting to think it.  It had turned out that the worst had come true, though.  Sherlock had stumbled home, after John had finally given in and phoned Mycroft, admitting he couldn’t search for Sherlock on his own.  The teen had been strung out and filthy from days living on the street, hungry and dehydrated.  Track marks had torn the soft, delicate skin of Sherlock’s inner elbow, breaking through the puckered scar tissue that had hardened over the short time he had been out of rehab.  So short a time for someone so young, John had remembered thinking as his heart had broken while his arms had wrapped around Sherlock in their bed as he held Sherlock through the withdrawals.

He doesn’t want that to happen again.  He would do _anything_ to keep that from happening again.  He just wants Sherlock to know that.

Sherlock sighs softly and gives in without even the hint of a fight after that.

Which leads him to his next rule:

“‘I must check in with Daddy throughout the day’.”

“When we play?” Sherlock asks, thinking that John forgot to add that on to the end of his statement.

John shakes his head, though.  There aren’t many rules that he wants crossing over into their normal, everyday life but this is one of them, just as the eating and the sleeping had been, though that pipe-dream had burned to ashes.  These last two, though, seem innocent enough that John won’t budge on them.  Sherlock has a bad habit of wandering off, and it worries John more than his not eating or sleeping for a day or two does.  John knows the kind of things that the troublesome teen likes to get into, and John worries about Sherlock constantly when he doesn’t know where the sneaky brunet is.  It is especially worrisome now that they have moved to such a big city.  John knows that Sherlock likes to explore the seedier parts of London at all times of the day and poke into every odd corner that he can find, everywhere, even after the whole relapse-fiasco.  It’s fine, Sherlock is who he is and John loves him for it.  John knows that Sherlock is curious like a kitten and nothing John does or says will stop him from wanting to stick his nose into every nook and cranny of this city.  John just wants to know that he is safe while he is doing it.  If John could, he would put a tracking device on the kid.  The man has lost track of him more than once, even in the smaller town where they first met.

“No, just as it is,” John says, and Sherlock hesitates for only a moment while looking at John before finally nodding his head, giving in and writing down the rule without arguing.

John tries to hide his triumphant smile and basks in his glory.  The next rule, he knows, won’t go over quite as easily.

“‘I cannot have sweets unless I eat real food’,” John continues, and now he knows he may be pushing his luck, especially since he is now making rules that he wants to carry over into their everyday lives.  And, just as he expected—

“But, Daddy—!” Sherlock shouts out, dropping the crayon with a clatter and a look of horror on his face.

“Sherlock, I won’t force you to eat all of your food every day, but I’m not going to sit by and let you fill your body with junk.  If you want sweets, you are going to have to eat something nutritious first, even if it is just a little bit.”  His voice and his eyes soften as he looks down at Sherlock.  “I’m not asking a lot from you, love.”

Sherlock sighs in disgust but mumbles out a disgruntled, “Fine,” and picks the crayon up to write the rule on the paper.  He adds a drawn out sad face to the end of the sentence and John can’t help the chuckle that escapes his lips.  He reaches out to ruffle his little lovebug’s hair lovingly, so enamored with him that John’s heart feels like it might burst.  He doesn’t know how it’s possible to love someone who is so infuriating so much.

He continues to stare down at the child kneeling at his feet and thinks about what else he wants.  The next rule isn’t something they’ve had to deal with before, but he feels that it’s important that Sherlock know that John is serious about the issue.  “‘I must always be honest with Daddy’,” John says, and Sherlock looks up at him without writing anything down on the paper.

“I’ve never lied to you, Daddy,” Sherlock tells him, voice soft in the quiet of their flat.  “Not once.”  John knows that now they are _both_ thinking of the day that Sherlock came home from his relapse.  It was a wonder he even remembered where he lived.  But he _had_ come home, to John, when he could have easily stayed away until he had sobered up and John would have been none the wiser.  They are both aware that Sherlock knows how to cover up a single relapse.  If he had meant to do it only the one time, hiding it from John would have been easy.

John immediately drops down to the floor to wrap his lover up in a hug, his arms encasing Sherlock’s thin body.  “No, baby, I know,” John says through a mouthful of dark curls.  “And I don’t think that you will.  It’s not that.  I didn’t say ‘I must not lie to Daddy’.  I said that I want you to be honest with me.  There’s a difference,” John explains.  “If something makes you uncomfortable or you don’t want to do anything that I suggest, then you have to be honest with me, baby.  Just like you have been throughout all of this.  You’ve done so well.  Daddy’s so proud of you.  You’ve been such a good little kitten.”  John’s lips find Sherlock’s and he presses desperate, aching kisses to the plump, pliant mouth.  “Daddy’s big boy,” he whispers against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock’s arms wrap around John and he opens up to the man, letting John in.  The blond wants nothing more than to push Sherlock to the floor and take him right there, on top of the list of rules that they have just made together, but he knows that they aren’t quite finished yet.

He pulls himself away because there is one more rule that he needs Sherlock to write down.  Something that is perhaps more important than anything else that they’ve put down on the list so far.

John takes a breath and says softly, “One more, honeybee,” he says as he moves away from Sherlock and lets his little lover pick the crayon back up.  He watches as Sherlock pulls his list of rules back towards him and prepares to write the last one down.  “Ready for it?”  He waits until Sherlock gives him a nod before he says, in a steady voice, “ ‘No self-loathing or self-pity’.”

Instead of writing it down, though, Sherlock does nothing but stare at him blankly for a moment, almost as if he is confused by John’s rule.  “I don’t do that,” Sherlock says, turning away, but his voice is quiet and he won’t look John in the eye anymore.

John levels him with a look that says that he isn’t stupid and Sherlock would do well to remember that.  “What did we just say about you being honest with Daddy, young man?” he asks, and Sherlock has the decency to look chastised.  “I know you almost better than you know yourself, Sherlock.  Better than anyone else in the world,” he reminds the child tenderly.  “Never forget that.  I remember what you used to look like when I first met you.  How hurt you used to look when you thought you would always be alone.”  John pauses and runs his fingers through the dark, soft curls, taking the opportunity to get the slight quavering of his voice under control.  “I hated seeing you look like that, baby.  I hated seeing the way that you thought of yourself.  I know that you still feel that way sometimes.  I know that it’s still hard for you, being so different from everyone, seeing things the way you do, but you have nothing to be ashamed of.”  Sherlock had readily admitted the reasons for his relapse, while John had held him in his arms through the worst of the withdrawals.  He had said that sometimes everything in his head is just too much, and he can’t handle it, no matter how often he tells John that he is all Sherlock needs to make things better.  John had to learn that things just don’t work that way, in the real world.  “You’re brilliant.  Amazing.  So beautiful.  And, yeah,” he licks his lips and contemplates what he is about to say before deciding that it is definitely the last thing that needs to go on the list, and nods his head.  “This one needs to go down, too: ‘Every day I must tell Daddy one good thing I like about myself’.”

Sherlock turns wide, pleading eyes on him.  They are still crouched together, on the floor, and John doesn’t know if he has ever seen Sherlock look so small and fragile.  “John…there isn’t…” Sherlock flounders for words, at a loss for once.  And then, finally, “I _can’t_ ,” he says on a broken whisper.

“Why not?” John asks lightly, as if it is all just so simple.

Sherlock shakes his head.  “Because there isn’t enough that I like about myself for that to last.”

“Oh, baby,” John says, frowning.  “Come here.”  He pulls the young man back into his arms and Sherlock falls into his body willingly, hiding his face in John’s chest.  “That’s exactly why you need to do it, Sherlock,” John says into the crown of his curly head, arms wrapping tight around his bony shoulders.  “Even if it’s something small, or something that you think is stupid.  It can be something that you’ve already said once before.  Just tell me something about you that has made you feel good about yourself that day.  Whatever it is.  Okay?”

Against his chest, he can feel Sherlock nod his head.

“Let’s start now,” John tells him.

“I…” Sherlock starts and then trails off.

“Come on, kitten,” John urges gently, tilting his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s ear.  “Tell Daddy.”

“You,” Sherlock breathes out.

“What?”

“You’re what I like most about myself.”

John chuckles softly.  “Sherlock, that’s cheating.”

“But it’s the truth,” Sherlock says, struggling to pull himself away from the warmth and safety of John’s embrace and sit back to look at the man.  John can see that the tip of the child’s nose is shiny red and that his eyes are decidedly wet looking, but John doesn’t say anything about it.  “You make me feel better about myself.  You make me happier.  You’re the best thing about me, the best thing in my life.”  Sherlock leans forward and kisses him, and it is hot and wet and eager.  “Love you, Daddy.”

John’s arms tighten around Sherlock, pulling him closer.  “I love you, too, baby,” he says, dragging his lips across Sherlock’s mouth and down his neck, tasting every piece of collarbone and clavicle that he had wanted to earlier.  Sherlock moans and arches up against his mouth, and John can feel the rumble of his deep voice as he presses his lips against Sherlock’s chest.  He gently pushes the brunet back, down onto the floor, and moves over him.  Sherlock’s arms come up to wrap around his neck and his warm thighs part to cradle John’s body.  They fit so perfectly together, sinking into one another.  John sighs into his mouth.

“I’ll always take care of you, Sherlock,” he promises in between wet kisses, “try to keep you safe, make you happy.  And I’ll always help you take care of yourself.  In any way that I can.  I want to take care you, I want to do all of that stuff, because you need it, baby.  I want to take care of you all of the time, not just in the bedroom, and not just when we play, and not just when you feel like letting me.  I want to know I can always take care of you; that you will always let me.”

Sherlock’s hands clench in John’s shirt and his hips push up against John’s own at his words, a whimper escaping that pale, lovely throat as John licks a loving stripe up it.  “Yes,” Sherlock gasps, holding tight to John’s shoulders.  “Yes, John.  I want that, too.  Please…” his voice drops to a whisper, so low that John almost doesn’t hear it, “ _take care of me_.”

John can feel Sherlock’s hard length beneath his pyjama bottoms, hot and leaking already.  It strains against John’s hand as he rubs his palm over Sherlock’s shaft above the cotton material, spreading an obscene wet spot across a depiction of a pirate ship.

John looks down the expanse of Sherlock’s body and groans at the sight, his head falling against Sherlock’s chest as they both heave great ragged breaths.  He can’t believe how turned on they both are, and they have barely even touched each other.  But John can feel a difference between them now, a change; Sherlock is more complacent than he’s ever been underneath him, desperate for John’s soft words, his approval, his touch, his care, his love.  He has always tried to brush off John’s attempts to take care of him when they play like this, attempted to maintain some semblance of control over his emotions.  There has always been a small measure of reluctance and hesitancy every step of the way whenever John has tried to make sure Sherlock is well cared for when he is John’s little boy.  But now…

Now John can feel that Sherlock has finally let go, has finally given in.  Because they have boundaries now.  And within those boundaries Sherlock can finally see John’s need for everything he wants from Sherlock when they play.  It all makes sense to Sherlock now.  Seeing it written down makes it all very real, in a way it hadn’t quite been before. 

John can feel the subtle shift in their relationship already, the change between their old life and this new one—where they are living together now, where they truly belong to one another now, where Sherlock trusts John to never hurt him again, to never leave him.  No more wives, and no more hiding secrets from one another, and no more fighting this desire for what they truly want.  John can feel the transition in his mind and soul, in his heart.  It is something that affects his whole body, making him pause and stare down at the wonder beneath him, this amazing creature who he loves more than he has ever loved anything before in his life, who he would do anything for.  As he stares down at Sherlock beneath him, he realises that he would do whatever it takes in this world to make the younger man happy.  Sherlock is his salvation, his damnation, the reason he breathes and the reason he cries.  His sin, his temptation, his redemption.  His love and his life.  His to have forever and his to be one with.

His, and only his.

The thought drives John wild and he leans down to kiss Sherlock again.  John whimpers into the plush mouth, the sound desperate and shameless as they kiss, as John tries to get closer than he already is.  He wants to stay like this forever with Sherlock, wishing this could never end.

He moves to crouch over the brunet, his old knees—battered from years of playing rugby and military training drills—digging into the unyielding surface of the hardwood floor beneath him, but he ignores the discomfort.  He curls his fingers around the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms on either side of his slim hips and pulls, sliding them off and exposing the teen.  Sherlock’s thighs are spread wide to cradle John but the man is in the way and has no inclination to move, so the sleepwear catches halfway to his knees, baring just enough of him for John to get to his cock and his arse.

It is enough.

He reaches down to stroke Sherlock’s stiff prick a few times, gathering the precome which always flows so freely from Sherlock’s tip.  He knows they don’t have any lube, so he prepares to limit himself to only fingering the teen for a little while before moving on to other things.  However, when he drags his fingers across the small pucker of muscle and finds it wet with lube and already pliant and loose, he stops and stares down at the boy, pulling back slightly to look at him in confusion.

“I knew you would want to fuck me when you got home,” Sherlock explains to him, blushing prettily, his hair a mess as it fans out on the floor and his eyes dark with arousal.  “So I opened myself up for you.”

“Fuck,” John groans as he sinks a finger into Sherlock without preamble.  The body surrounding him is warm and open and slick, and John can feel that there is still enough lube there for him to fuck Sherlock.  It might sting a bit, but he knows Sherlock isn’t opposed to a bit of roughness.  Sherlock likes to feel John, every bit of him, and he’s said more than once that the slickness of the lube when they use too much is irritatingly slippery, so they have become accustomed to using exactly the amount they need and just prepping very thoroughly.  They’ve had sex so many times by now that Sherlock’s body welcomes John into it easily enough, anyway.

“Sit up,” he orders, voice a little too harsh in his need but he hardly notices.  “Need your mouth.  Get Daddy nice and wet so he can fuck you.”

Sherlock scrambles to obey him, trying to move around with his pyjamas pushed halfway down his thighs.  He manages, flipping over so that he is on his hands and knees with his head in John’s lap as the man sits on the floor.  His shaking hands manage to get John’s trousers undone, and his mouth takes John’s aching prick in as soon as the man pushes his clothing out of the way.

John hisses at the contact as Sherlock wastes no time taking him all the way down, to the back of his throat.  The blond can feel the soft flutter of the delicate muscle contractions around the tip of his head as Sherlock holds him there for a moment, swallowing around him and letting saliva pool against the skin, wetting John’s shaft as thoroughly as he can.

John curses when Sherlock slides off of him to catch his breath, eyes shining with reflex tears and cheeks red from lack of oxygen.  He has a clear view of Sherlock’s pale arse shoved up into the air as his head is pressed low over John’s groin, and John groans at the sight of him.

“Lick you fingers and open yourself up for me some more, baby,” John says.  “I want to watch you.  I want you so wet and loose that I can just slide right into you.”

Sherlock whimpers at John’s orders but obeys him, spreading his knees as wide as they will go with his pyjama bottoms around his thighs to give himself better access to his entrance.  John can’t see him finger himself from the position he is in, but he can tell when Sherlock slips the first digit inside.  His eyes slide closed and his spit-slick mouth drops open on a small gasp, and John’s cock twitches, missing those lips.

Sherlock doesn’t give himself much time to adjust to the stretch.  He pulls his hand back and brings it to his face again, sliding his fingers into his mouth once more to rewet them before replacing them at his arse.  John knows he is squeezing two fingers in this time because he knows what an impatient, greedy little thing Sherlock is in bed.  He would worry about Sherlock hurting himself but he knows that his little boy can take a hard fucking from time to time.

He really is quite a marvel.

When Sherlock has managed to squeeze three fingers inside of himself, panting and moaning maddeningly, John decides that he can’t wait any longer.  He’s been patient enough.  He doesn’t even bother to undress himself; he just pushes his trousers and pants down around his thighs haphazardly.  He leans forward and grabs Sherlock, being careful when pulling those long fingers out of that slick, open hole, and flips him onto his back, finally tugging off Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms.  John bends down to kiss him, trapping their cocks between them and rubbing their erections together, pressing tightly to relieve some of the unbearable pressure before sitting back up.  He positions himself between Sherlock’s spread thighs, the leaking head of his prick pressing against Sherlock’s relaxed entrance.  His thighs are caught by the clothing which he didn’t remove fully, but he hardly cares right now.  He takes his cock in his hand and rubs it along the cleft of his lover’s arse a few times, catching on the loosened hole and making Sherlock moan at the feeling, squirming under him.

“Ready for it, baby?” he asks, letting his fingers trail softly along the rim of Sherlock’s arse, checking one last time to see how open he is.  John doesn’t like not having lube on hand, even though Sherlock used it earlier, so he makes a last ditch effort to coat himself as liberally as he can with spit.  He can feel that his saliva makes everything even slicker, so he knows that Sherlock used a water based lubricant; he adds a little more spit to help things along.  The soft, relaxed muscle clenching around his fingers does much to reassure him as well and draws a groan out of his throat, and John can’t hold back any longer.  He grips his cock and lines himself up, then pushes slowly inside the indescribable heat of Sherlock’s body, cursing.

“Fuck, baby.  You’re so tight.”

Sherlock moans as John enters him, his thighs quivering and wrapping around John’s waist, hands scrambling to grip John’s shoulders.  “Daddy,” he says, and the man stills as he gives Sherlock a moment to get used to the feel of him, the incredible stretch of it, before moving.

“You are an absolute wonder,” John tells him, peppering his face with kisses, using one hand to run through his tousled hair while the other holds Sherlock tight to him.  John doesn’t think he will ever be able to let him go, not after this, not after Sherlock has given him this, given John this part of himself.  It is amazing and humbling.  For Sherlock to let John have this part of him, to let John take care of him like this, when Sherlock is so fiercely independent, so singularly brilliant, is amazing and John will never, ever take advantage of it or forget what a wonderful gift it is.

“Daddy, please,” Sherlock whispers, a small frown of displeasure furrowing his brow as he tries to reach a hand down to touch himself, but John doesn’t want that.  John is taking care of him now, and John will give him exactly what he needs.

He starts to move, slowly, the slide of skin on skin easy and slick.  He takes his time with Sherlock, savouring him, feeling him.  He kisses him, touches him, tastes him.  John’s cock presses against that spot inside of him randomly, keeping Sherlock on edge.  John’s hands slide all over his body slowly; his nipples, the soft skin of his lower belly, his cock.  He drags his lips over all of Sherlock’s erogenous spots—his neck, the inside of his elbow, his earlobes. 

John realises that many times in the past when they have had sex, he has been rather harsh and controlling.  It is, in fact, part of what their game is about.  And they have both been fine with that.  He understands now, though, that he doesn’t necessarily always have to be that way with Sherlock to give him what he needs while they play like this.  The list they just made has helped him see that, opened up his eyes to some of the things that John has been overlooking.

Below him, Sherlock tries to rut against his body with a pathetic whimper, trying to create friction against his neglected cock as John continues to slowly fuck into him.  John looks down at the panting and mindless vision caught beneath him, completely at his mercy, and thinks about how he doesn’t need to be harsh and controlling now because John is his Daddy.  John knows that Sherlock is his, and that it doesn’t matter what John does to him; he will always know just how to take his boy apart in the end.

“Relax, kitten,” John whispers to him, placing a soft, placating kiss on his open mouth, “Daddy will get you there.”

Sherlock does as he is told and goes still against John’s body, giving himself over to John without the hesitancy that John usually feels from him at this point in their game, without the tentativeness.  Now there is only complete and utter certainty, and it makes John’s heart ache.  When Sherlock is completely pliant against him, John finally begins stroking his cock, giving him the friction he wants.  Sherlock moans and spreads his thighs wider against John’s hips, taking him deeper.

“Good boy,” John praises him, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s sweaty brow.  His hand is slick between them and he knows that Sherlock is as close as he is.  “Go ahead and come for me, baby.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to be told twice.  He bucks against John’s body and gasps, fingers biting into John’s shoulder.  John follows right behind him, filling him up with a small grunt and a stutter of his hips, pressing into him deep, dropping kisses to his face and neck.

When he catches his breath, he sits up and pulls out of Sherlock gently, smiling tenderly down at the teen lying on the floor, still panting slightly.  Sherlock is a mess of sweaty, tangled hair and flushed skin.  His pyjama top is rucked up and askew, his sleep pants are hanging onto one foot, and his spent cock rests contentedly on his thigh, still flushed and wet from his recent orgasm.  John reaches a hand out, the one that is still clean and free of Sherlock’s come, and strokes him softly, cradling his heated, tacky flesh.

Sherlock squirms at the stimulation and groans tiredly, trying to wiggle away, but John is simply mesmerised by the sight of him, lost in the look and feel of him.  “Come here, love,” he tells him.

Sherlock does as he is told, pushing himself up to sit in front of John.  The blond reaches out for him but his hands are absolutely covered with Sherlock’s come.  It coats his fingers slickly, like honey.  So instead of grabbing him, John holds his hands up, away from Sherlock, and uses his forearms to bring the boy in for a hug, holding him to his chest that way.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he whispers into dark, tangled hair.  “So much.  I’ll do whatever I can to take care of you.”

Forever, he wants to add, but he thinks that pretty much goes without saying now.

He’ll never give Sherlock up.  He’d never be able to.  This, what they have together—whatever it is—John knows that it is a permanent thing.

He wants Sherlock, just like this, messes and rules and broken-ness and all, for as long as Sherlock will allow John to have him.

*


End file.
